


the art of scraping through

by mormon-hair (frankie_31)



Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: Bittersweet, Infidelity, M/M, medium-slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-01-22 14:37:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21303725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frankie_31/pseuds/mormon-hair
Summary: Set in a meandering trail across America, this is the story of how Holden Ford learns to be real boy. This is also where he learns to delineate between obsession and desire.
Relationships: Bill Tench/Nancy Tench, Bill Tench/Original Male Character, Holden Ford/Bill Tench
Comments: 18
Kudos: 56





	1. the take gives

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic I ever started writing for this fandom. It's very different tonally from my other works. I hope you enjoy it.

It is outside Pacifica, California that stress leeches into Bill Tench’s iron-solid persona. 

Holden has been watching him, over burgers and from behind the safety of Bill’s proper driving skills. Even when Bill is lecturing Holden on making the material more approachable to the beat cops, waving his gas station styrofoam coffee cup, he keeps his eyes firmly on the road ahead. 

Holden has memorized the angle of his brow, the silver flattop, the density to his person. But in his dutiful observations he realizes  that Bill is also slippery, despite his solid build. He’s slippery. 

Things have a way of eeling off of him—bad lessons, awkward conversations, tense phone calls at 3 AM—they slide off the carefully constructed Bill Tench. Holden, in all his carefully curated Macy’s finery, feels sloppy and wrong-footed beside Bill. 

They’re driving the meandering, cliff-side road, affectionately known as Devil’s Slide. It cuts away from the coast into a small forest to end on a hill that leads to Pacifica. Holden watches Bill dart a glance at the welcome sign and his hands tighten on the wheel. 

“Are you alright?” Holden asks, unable to control his curiosity. He sounds too eager to his own ears. 

“What? Yeah. I’m alright,” Bill responds and looks out the back window unnecessarily. They descend into silence yet again and Holden tries to keep his eyes ahead of them. 

His gaze slides over to Bill, who is now drumming his fingers on the steering wheel nervously.  _ Nervously _ .

“Do you need to stop somewhere?” Holden asks,  thinking that maybe he’s landed on the wrong idea. Maybe it’s a biological tension, not an emotional one. 

“What? Are you my mother?”

“You just seem—“

“I just seem what, Holden? Annoyed? Quit asking if I need to take a piss and tell me how to get to our motel,” Bill snaps and Holden recognizes the order for what it is. More discomfort. Bill is on edge. 

“Are things okay back at the office?”

“Holden,” Bill says and stabs a hand forward, like a blade. “Give me some fucking direction here.”

“Take the 47A exit,” Holden says mildly. “To Serramonte.”

“Thanks,” Bill says tersely and jabs the cigarette lighter in. 

They ride in silence, eventually Bill lights a cigarette and the air becomes a little hazy. Holden tries looking out the window at the pastel houses dotting the hills of Daly City but he keeps catching himself peering at Bill. 

Bill seems wound tight, lighting another cigarette as soon as he finishes the first. Their motel is okay, it has a bar which is nice. Holden is attaining a taste for whiskey through force and exposure. 

Bill drops his suitcase on the bed closest to the door and immediately takes over the bathroom. The sink turns on and Holden is left standing in the doorway. 

He’s just loosened his tie and sat on the bed when Bill exits again, overshirt unbuttoned and water misting his face. He sheds the button-up and trades it for a more casual, more hideous, short sleeve. 

He looks like a typical, clueless forty year old man. He puts on cologne and Holden raises his eyebrows. Bill makes a face in return. 

“What?” Bill asks, sounding weary.

“Sorry—I—Are you going somewhere?”

“Got a contact in the city,” Bill says. “A consultant. Psychologist.”

“She must be pretty,” Holden says, aiming for a joking tone. 

“Doctor  _ Logan  _ Field is meeting me at some steak place,” Bill says and he sticks the cap back on the deodorant. “ _ He  _ and I are going to discuss a case.”

“Great,” Holden says and retightens his tie. “I could go for steak.”

“Holden—I—Great,” Bill grinds out and Holden is aware he’s missing something. 

The drive to the steak place is silent and Bill smokes two more cigarettes by the time they pull up to the valet. Bill hands over the keys to the valet and sighs heavily before pushing open the front doors. 

The hostess guides them across the room to a booth in the corner with a little ‘Reserved’ sign on it. A man stands up, already smiling when he spots Bill. He’s got tousled, sun-bleached blonde curls and very blue eyes. His warm smile stiffens when he notices Holden. 

“Bill,” he says in a voice that wouldn’t melt butter. “You brought a friend.”

“Yeah,” Bill says and Dr. Field sits back down. “This is Holden. My road school partner.”

“That’s me,” Holden agrees with a smile and scoots into the booth against the wall. “And you’re the consultant.”

“I’m the consultant,” Dr. Field agrees, frowning. He looks up to where Bill is still standing at the edge of the table. “Aren’t you going to sit, Bill?”

“Christ,” Bill says into his hand. 

“There’s room here,” Holden says and scoots just the tiniest bit more against the wall. 

“Yep,” Bill agrees and stays standing. 

“Sit with your friendly little coworker,” Dr. Field says. He isn’t happy. 

“Sure,” Bill agrees and sits down beside Holden. “They got any specials tonight?”

“I’m sure they do,” Holden says, trying to ease the tension. 

The waiter comes over and takes orders and they settle into an uncomfortable  silence . 

“Do you have the files?” Holden asks, eager to break the awful silence. 

“The what?”

“Bill said—“

“I mentioned the case I was consulting for you on,” Bill says and Dr. Field sighs forcefully.

“I forgot them at home. Whoops,” he says flippantly and takes a drink of his white wine. “I’m just such an idiot.”

“Logan,” Bill says in a tone Holden recognizes as warning. “Come on.”

“Did I crash a personal dinner?” Holden asks, catching on. 

“Of course not,” Bill says. “This is a business dinner. We are all professionals.”

“Professional. Well. I do recall the details of a case you could help with,” Dr. Field says and Holden nods encouragingly. Dr. Field leans forwards conspiratorially and Holden matches him. “The victim is a very patient and understanding man. And the alleged is a callous asshole. Or maybe just a brain dead one.”

“Logan,” Bill interjects but the doctor continues.

“And the victim decides maybe it’s not worth all of the trouble. Maybe, the victim decides that being in the closet is killing them anyways—So. Why not just live their life?”

“The victim is...homosexual?” Holden asks. He’s struggling to parse out the problem. “And the unsub—“

“The ‘unsub’. How quaint. I do so love the Quantico-isms,” Dr. Field says and sits back in the booth. He levels a sharp stare at Bill. “How’s Nancy?”

“You’re being unfair,” Bill says, tapping his cigarette harshly against the ashtray. “And she’s just great. Can we change the subject?”

“Sure,” he says and smiles brightly. “Holden. What a delightfully literary name. Have you read  _ Catcher _ ?”

“Yes, Doctor,” Holden says, thrown by the question. 

“And? Did you enjoy it?”

“It was a little hectic for me,” Holden says. “That is, I had difficulty being drawn into the story. Non-fiction is preferable to me.”

“Oh. I suppose that makes sense. Bill isn’t a big reader, either,” Dr. Field says and swirls the wine in his glass. 

“The little squiggly things give me a headache,” Bill drawls. “I think they’re called letters?”

The doctor snorts and takes another long drink of wine. Holden eyes his own whiskey. He takes a sip, blinking against the burn and sets his glass down. 

Bill sends him a baleful look, clearly judging his whiskey-drinking skills. 

Holden steels himself and takes a full drink. It’s easier to grin and bear it with Bill’s full attention. 

“Can he balance a rubber ball on his nose?” Dr. Field asks. Holden bristles a little. “Or does he just carry your projector?”

“Bill and I are peers, Dr. Field,” Holden says and Bill exhales steadily through his nose. “I’m quite an adept agent.”

“Holden, just—just pipe down. Logan’s in a tiff tonight,” Bill says lowly, exhaling smoke with each word. 

“A tiff,” Dr. Field echos. “I’m in a tiff. Sure.”

“I gotta take a leak,” Bill says and stubs his cigarette out. “Keep an eye on our good doctor, Holden.”

“I need to use the restroom as well,” Dr. Field says, looking at Holden with a strange, firm expression. 

“Logan,” Bill says quietly and Dr. Field marches towards the restroom. Bill pinches the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Be right back, kid.”

“I’m missing something,” Holden says and Bill squeezes his eyes shut. 

“Be right back,” he repeats and follows Dr. Field. 

He is not right back.

It’s approaching ten minutes when Holden’s curiosity finally gets the better of him. He hems and haws on following them, unsure if Bill’s anger will be worth the nosiness. He decides to bite the bullet, per se, and heads toward the restroom. It’s a nice restaurant, so it’s a nice bathroom. Big oak door that leads to a long row of mirrors and stools. Down at the end are the stalls and as Holden makes his way passed the mirrors, he hears it.

He hears it, the uneven breathing, and worries that Dr. Field is attacking Bill or someone else has done something. Then, an animal part of his brain rears up and he realizes what he’s hearing--bedroom noises.

A strange, slick sound and heavy breathing and--and that’s Bill’s voice, murmuring. 

“--you gotta know, baby--you have to know how I feel--”

And a wet, suction sound and then--

“How am I supposed to know, Bill? You won’t  _ say _ it,” Dr. Field says, voice rough like he’s been coughing. 

“What do you want me to say? You want me to lie to you?”

“...Yes. For tonight,” Dr. Field says in a small and fragile voice. “Just tell me.”

“I’m leaving her,” Bill croons. “And I’m coming here. And we can buy that stupid dog you want--”

“A husky,” Dr. Field interjects. 

“Yeah, a husky. And I’ll call your mom with the wedding invitations myself--”

“Don’t talk about my mother with your dick in my hand,” Dr. Field says with a weak laugh. 

Holden sucks in a breath at that, at the sheer shock, and both men go silent immediately. He turns on heel and begins walking as quickly and quietly as he can towards the door. He barely makes it back to his table, stuffs mashed potatoes in his mouth, and then Bill is stalking out of the bathroom. 

His shirt is tucked haphazardly into his pants and his tie is still thrown over his shoulder. Holden fights down the urge to blush and takes another swig of his whiskey. He keeps his eyes on his plate, then realizes that might be a worse move. He looks up at Bill. 

“Whatever you think—,” Bill starts and then cuts off. He leans down, hands on the table. He speaks again, quieter, “You did not hear or see anything.”

“Of course not, Bill,” Holden says, trying to tell Bill with his eyes that he would die for his secrets. “Your steak arrived.”

“Okay. Okay, kid,” he says and rubs a hand over his forehead. “Logan isn’t feeling well. He’s gone home.”

“Oh,” Holden says, processing. “Are we...staying?”

“We can,” Bill hedges. “If you want.”

“We could—I haven’t seen the Golden Gate Bridge yet,” Holden says, mouth working faster than his brain. What is he doing? “We could take doggy bags.”

“Doggy bags,” Bill echoes. “Sure. I’ll go get the waiter.”

The drive to Fort Point is tense. Holden starts to say something and Bill immediately jabs the radio on. Holden takes the cue to fall quiet. 

Bill is mulling something over, hand pressed to mouth and eyebrows furrowed. 

They pull up, Bill backs the car into the parking spot and turns off the ignition. The radio cutting off is jarring and Holden realizes he can hear the ocean. 

“Okay, Holden,” Bill says, picks up his dinner and opens the car door. “Come on.”

Bill leans on the edge of the trunk, holding the tinfoil package that contained his dinner. Holden follows, holding his own dinner as a second thought. He leans beside Bill. 

They’re in a parking lot facing the Golden Gate Bridge. There’s a railing separating them from the banks of the water and the bridge rises, monolithic, from the fog coating the water. 

Bill tenses, just barely and clears his throat. Holden looks to him. 

“Okay. I’m trusting you here, Holden,” Bill says. “You can ask me about it. Just tonight. And it stays here tonight. So. Ask away.”

“Bill…” Holden starts and Bill squints out across the water. “It’s not my business.”

“You’re right,” Bill says. “But you inserted yourself into it. Per usual. And now I think that—I  _ feel _ that I owe you an explanation.”

Holden considers that this is one of those times that someone says something clearly to him, but they mean it the other way. Typically, Bill is usually good at being authentic with him. 

He sighs. 

“Are you a...homosexual?”

Bill winces, minutely, and sets his dinner back on the trunk. 

“ _ No _ ,” he says emphatically. “I love Nancy. I enjoy making love to Nancy. But I lo—like men occasionally. Not often.”

“And Dr. Field is one of the...men you like,” Holden says, carefully.

“Yes,” Bill says, like chewing glass. “He is.”

“Are you really going to leave your wife for him?” Holden asks, glancing at him from the corner of his eye. Bill is barely illuminated, the light from a nearby street lamp silhouettes him in soft relief.

“No,” Bill answers, sounding weary. “I’m not leaving Nancy. I’ve tried to—get him to move on. For years. But. It’s not that simple sometimes. He doesn’t let go easy.”

“I imagine you don’t either,” Holden says and Bill snorts. 

“No, I imagine I don’t,” Bill says and Holden nods. 

“This is...a personal matter,” Holden says. “And it’s really not my business. We are partners and I appreciate you trusting me. And I appreciate your honesty. That being said, I won’t pry any further. We can forget this happened.”

Bill is quiet for a long time. Then he puts a hand on Holden’s shoulder. He squeezes it once and then walks forward, towards the railing and leans against it. Holden hears the snick of a lighter and then  sees  the smoke curls above his head.

Holden pulls himself up on the trunk and unwraps his dinner. It’s still warm and he tucks in, gazing up that bridge in the night. 

***

He tries to leave it there, by the bridge. 

But the new information has colored every facet of Bill. It has changed him from a source of information and a coworker to a sexual creature. A sexually deviant creature, even. 

Holden is not homophobic. Not at all. He has landed in a place where he understands that people have different sexual interests and it’s generally not his business. He’s aware that this is not a widely accepted belief and, so, keeps it to himself. 

Bill drinks from a beer bottle and Holden wonders if his mouth looks like that  when performing fellatio. He dips his fingers into a pay phone coin slot and Holden flushes bright red, all the way down to his chest. Bill checks the dipstick, napkin-guarded fingers sliding up the metal through the grease and Holden had to press a hand to his mouth to keep from coughing out his mouthful of coffee. 

It transforms small pieces of their relationship, against Holden’s will. He’s putting on his button-up in the mirror over the cabinet, doing up his tie, looking at Bill on the bed. 

He realizes his motions have become performative and he is acting and holding himself in the way he does with Debbie. He is moving with an overarching  _ awareness  _ of his actions and of his appearance. He walks to the bathroom in his pajamas and wonders if Bill is watching him. If his shoulders look broad, his waist trim. Is his face appealing to...to men who like men?

It’s an intriguing concept, if he’s honest with himself. But he isn’t sure how to find out. He’s not sure if he even wants to know. 

It’s shaded his interactions with other men even. The gas station attendants’ heavy-lidded gaze while he scrubbed the window beside Holden. One of the trainees who had lingered after class once to ask him inane questions. Do they view him sexually? And, of course, by considering their sexual nature he is viewing them sexually. When does the line get crossed from experimental thinking to true deviancy?

He’s drawn from his thoughts by Bill lighting a cigarette. He looks at him, in his boxers and an undershirt, and pushes his attention to his own hair. He fiddles with the front for a moment, collecting himself, when Bill sighs derisively.

“What?” Holden asks immediately. 

“Really--What are you expecting to learn?”

Holden’s mouth takes over and he makes his case to Bill, meeting his eyes in the mirror. He is still baffled that Bill can’t see the literal flood of knowledge they can glean here. It makes him angry. 

“So, basically,” Holden says, bitter. “You  _ just _ got me out here to carry your slide projector?”

Dr. Field was more correct than he’d realized. 

“To help with the workload,” Bill corrects. Holden realizes he probably touched a nerve mentioning that night at all. “The work we’re sanctioned to do.”

They bicker back and forth a bit more, neither acknowledging the tension that’s crept into the room. Bill turns his head to ash his cigarette and Holden tries to change the topic. 

He says the first thing that pops into his head. It’s unfortunately telling. 

“Think the tie’s too much?” He asks, internally cringing at himself and drawing in a breath. Why not just pass him a note—do you like me? Yes or no? He charges forward, aiming for casual. “What about the suit?”

Bill doesn’t answer, but he engages more, turns to him. Holden refuses to look at Bill’s bare legs. He can tell Bill is saying something important so he fills in the blank—

“Good advice.”

—and tries to catch up. It ends up being great advice. A game plan for Kemper. His plans to improv were foolish, in retrospect. 

He does not feel prepared either way. 

Kemper is absolutely fascinating, however, and any game plan is immediately discarded. 

And honestly, a lot gets discarded post-Kemper. Kemper is a landmine that Holden is stepping on, in slow motion, until suddenly it all blows up in his face. 

He hugs him. 

Kemper  _ hugs  _ him. 

And he’s rattling to the ground with his heart galloping against his ribs and his breath trapped, hiccuping, in his lungs and it all just fades to black. 

***

And then, when he comes back, it’s Bill. 

Always Bill. 

He marvels in his Valium-induced stupor at all the times he’s awoken to Bill’s face. 

Does Dr. Field ever get those moments? Sun motes and the smell of coffee. Bill’s profile in the early daylight. Bill’s voice, gruff from sleep still. He considers the fact that he and Nancy are the only one’s privy to this personal time with Bill. He feels sorry for Dr. Field. 

Holden gets swept into the next case. The next fiasco and the next trouble. Before he knows it, a child murderer is going to jail on two counts of bullshit and he’s staring at his empty, ugly apartment.

Alcohol would help this situation, he decides. Victory lap around a bar. 

He walks, crisp air relieving his stress by a modicum, and wanders towards the drinking district. He’s edging towards a bar with live music, some band called  _ The Bangles _ , when two men walk passed him. 

They’re both handsome, tall and muscular, and dressed so peculiarly that Holden is trailing behind them before he realizes. 

One is shirtless, wearing bleached shorts, knee socks and combat boots that have been spray painted white. The other is in all black with an open silk shirt. Holden realizes, suddenly, that he wants to go to the bar they’re going to.

He follows them for a few more blocks, trying to be surreptitious. The neighborhood gets a little rougher and Holden finds himself checking his six more often than not. He’s peering over his shoulder when suddenly he gets shoved from the front. Holden stumbles back, catching himself before he falls.

“Why are you following us?” The man in black asks, face impossibly pale against his collar. 

“I-I just wanted to go to the same bar as you,” he says, tensed and ready to run if this turns nasty. 

“Chill out, Xan,” the man in white says and he grabs his arm. “He’s just a baby. He can come with us.”

“I’m twenty-nine,” Holden protests and the man in white flashes pearly teeth. 

“You’re a baby in all the ways that count,” he says and laughs. “I’m Joseph. That’s Xander and he has anger issues.”

“Rightfully so, I would think,” Xander says and Joseph shrugs and sticks a hand in his own back pocket. Xander makes a face at Holden. “It’s your turn to tell us who you are.”

“Oh. I’m Holden,” he says and Joseph elbows Xander. 

“That’s probably his real name,” he says and Xander sneers. 

“It is,” Holden says. Xander rolls his eyes. 

“Sodomy is still illegal, Baby,” Joseph says and Xander swats his arm. “Pick a name that won’t trace back to your day job. What are you? A stock broker?”

“Something like that,” Holden says in lieu of gaping in shock. They’re...like Bill. They think he’s like Bill. 

“So? What’s your name?”

“Logan,” Holden says on instinct and Joseph nods approvingly. He isn’t sure why that name comes to mind. He isn’t sure he wants to examine it further.

“Logan. Nice to meet you,” he says and turns curtly. “Come along, then.”

The club isn’t much further. It’s nondescript in appearance, just a brick building with blacked out windows. There isn’t even a bouncer. Holden isn’t sure it’s not closed until Xander opens the front door and leads them down a hallway. The deeper into the hallway they go, the louder the bass gets. There’s a set of double-doors around a corner and Xander turns and offers his first smile of the night. 

“Stay safe, Baby,” he says and pushes the doors open. 

The first thing he realizes is that he is utterly unprepared for this. The music is too loud, some synthpop beat that Holden’s never heard. There are a lot of people here, most of them dancing and some sitting at the bars. There are more men here than Holden had ever conceived of being homosexuals and he’s gobsmacked. Joseph pulls him in through the doorway and over to the bar by his wrist. 

“What’s your poison?” Joseph asks loudly over the music.

“Uh--whiskey?” Holden asks and Joseph waves down a bartender. 

“What did you drag in here, Joe?” The bartender asks, leaning on the counter to look at Holden. “Look at his hair. His little side part!”

“This is Logan,” Joseph says. “He wants whiskey.”

“Whiskey. How about a vodka cranberry? He doesn’t have the gumption for whiskey,” the bartender says, already pouring juice and vodka into a glass. He sets its on a napkin before Holden and looks at him expectantly. 

Holden takes a sip. A small smile breaks over his face and Joseph beams. 

“It’s good,” Holden says and the bartenders rolls his eyes. 

“It’s my job to know what people drink,” he says. “And you aren’t a whiskey man.”

“My--my--coworker is a whiskey man,” Holden says, three drinks and a half-hour later. Joseph has left him and he’s just perched at the bar, talking to the bartender when he wanders by. “Whiskey and Marlboros.”

“Sounds sexy,” he says and puts a dish of pretzels in front of Holden. 

Holden falls quiet and presses the cool glass to his forehead. Is he going to think about this? A  _ gay _ bar is probably the best place to think about this. If there’s a more appropriate place, it escapes him. 

Bill  _ is _ sexy. He sits up at the bar, sucks in a shaky breath. Bill is sexy and Holden thinks he’s sexy. 

The world doesn’t end. 

It’s a little more neon and strobey than normal, but the earth keeps turning and God doesn’t strike Holden down. Neither does Reagan. It’s funny how such a small phrase can be so utterly earth-shattering. 

He decides he’s gotten what he needs out of the night and closes his tab out. He’s drunk, sloppily so, and walking home barely sobers him up. He trips his way up his stairs, fumbling his keys from his pocket as he goes. 

There’s someone leaning on the railing across from his front door. They turn and look down at him as he weaves up the stairs.

“Holden?” 

“Bill,” Holden answers. He mentally steels himself. “What are you doing here?”

“Can we talk inside?” Bill asks and Holden finally rounds his staircase railing. 

“Sure,” he says and inhales. “Sure.”

The key is a challenge, getting his shoes off is a challenge, taking his damn tie off is a challenge. When he finally sits on the sofa, Bill is sitting across from him with an amused expression. 

“You’re plastered,” Bill says and Holden nods with a sigh. 

“That is true,” Holden says. “What are you doing here?”

“I--I needed space from the house. Do you mind?”

“No. Mi casa es tu casa,” Holden says, leaning forward and propping his chin up on his hand. “I think I have beer.”

“I don’t know if I need to be drinking,” Bill says but he goes and gets the six-pack. “What have you been drinking? You smell like a fruit bowl.”

“Cranberry vodkas,” Holden says, eyelids impossibly heavy. “They’re surprisingly strong for being so...pink.”

“Vodka cranberry,” Bill repeats with a scoff. “Must have had some young ladies buying for you.”

“Few young men, actually,” Holden replies and then his brain catches up to his mouth. He sits up, ramrod straight, and turns carefully to look at Bill. Bill is paused, beer bottle to his mouth and he takes a purposeful mouthful. 

“Huh,” he says eventually and Holden sinks back against the couch, rubbing his hands over his face. 

“I actually went to a--a gay bar,” Holden says in a rush and watches Bill carefully. 

“Jesus, Holden,” Bill hisses, looking around like Gunn is hiding in a corner. “Are you trying to get fired?”

“I didn’t mean too,” Holden says and slides further down the couch so he’s half sprawled out. His fingers are only a few inches from Bill’s pants. “I was just following these guys.”

“You can’t shit where you eat, Holden. If you--if that’s something you do, you need to be smart about it,” Bill says and drains his beer in one, long pull. 

Holden sits up, much closer to Bill now, and breathes in shakily. Bill is popping the cap off another Modelo and studiously not looking at him. His jaw is so square. Holden wants to touch it. 

“Get back to your side of the couch,” Bill says in a clipped voice. “And quit looking at me like I’m--I’m some kind of answer.”

“You’ve never thought about it? About us?” Holden asks, leaning over on his arm. “I have. Not a lot. I don’t let myself think about it. But I can’t help it sometimes.”

“Stop, Holden,” Bill snaps and Holden leans a little more. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I think I do,” Holden says. “Bill. Look at me.”

He doesn’t. Then, slowly, he does. 

Holden leans over and presses his face against Bill’s neck. Breathes in his aftershave and moves his head up to brush his lips over the barely there five o’clock shadow on Bill’s jaw. Bill turns, barely, imperceptibly, and Holden smears his mouth over Bill’s. 

There’s a flash of pressure and then Bill is recoiling, jumping up from the couch and backing away. He’s dropped his beer and Holden watches it glug out on the floor. 

“I don’t need this,” Bill says, red-faced. “I needed a friend tonight, Holden. Not more bullshit to tend to. We are partners. And men. And that’s just the tip of iceberg. This can’t happen. I’m going home. And we are going to pretend this didn’t happen. And you aren’t going back to that gay bar and jeopardizing everything I’ve spent years working on. I fed this program my time, my sweat, my fucking marriage. I’m not losing it now. Figure. Your. Shit.  _ Out _ .”

“Bill--,” Holden says but Bill’s already slamming the door behind him. Holden rolls on his back on the couch and presses a hand to his forehead. 

He fucked that up. He couldn’t have fucked that up more than he did. He exhales slowly and rolls himself off the couch, staggers to his feet and makes for the door. He slips in the spilled beer on his way, but manages to wrench his door open and make it out to the railing. 

“Bill,” he calls over the railing and he can see Bill’s flattop moving a floor below. “Bill, I’m sorry.”

Bill keeps marching down the stairs and Holden, more sober than he thought possible, follows him. He takes two steps at once and Bill has just stormed through his lobby doors when he hits the ground floor. He’s in socks, a white a-line and not much else but he runs out into the night after Bill anyways. 

Bill has one hand in his hair, turning slowly back to face Holden. He doesn’t look mad anymore, just so very tired. 

“Go back up, Holden,” he says and puts his hands on his hips. 

“No,” Holden says. “Come back up. I’m sorry. We can move forward and I can be a good friend. You came here because you needed me and I’m an asshole if I can’t be there for you.”

“Just move on?” Bill asks and one eyebrow raises. “One hundred percent?”

“Absolutely,” Holden nods. “Come back up.”

Bill is quiet for a moment, looking up at the stars, and then he nods. 

“Okay. Lead the way,” he says and Holden does. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holden and Bill take a few chances.

**CHAPTER TWO**

A thick case thunks onto Holden’s desk and he looks up from his doodle of an apple tree to see Wendy’s delicately raised brow. 

“Holden,” she says and perches on the edge of his desk. He forces himself not to look at her thigh beside his blotter. “Gunn passed a few interesting cases down to me. I like this one for the program.”

“Oh?” Holden says and cracks the case open. “Carol Bundy--a woman?”

“A woman. One of the few female serial killers, perhaps,” Wendy says with a small, knowing smile. “You’re interested?”

“Very,” Holden says, flipping through the case. “So, she’s the submissive in the partnership. Any chance we can interview the boyfriend? Clark?”

“We can try,” Wendy says and laces her fingers over her knee. “They’re both in California.” 

“Well, damn,” Gregg says from across the room. “Two eggs in one basket.”

“I wonder why Ted didn’t give us both cases,” Holden wonders aloud and Gregg nods in agreement. 

“Perhaps,” Wendy begins and pauses. “Perhaps, he’s diversifying our interviewees. We have plenty of aggressive, dominant killers. A submissive female is unique.”

“And it’s possible she won’t be as forthcoming is she knows we’ll be cross-referencing with Clark. Perhaps she’ll be more organic in her responses,” Holden offers and Wendy nods.

“I feel like this should be a priority case,” Wendy says and Holden nods, looking back at the case.

“You could probably visit Kemper,” Gregg offers and Wendy and Holden cut a look at him. “Or not. What am I missing?”

“Kemper is on a no-go list for awhile,” Bill cuts in from the doorway, surprising them all. “What’s going on in here?”

“We want to pivot to a new focal point for the next round of investigations,” Wendy says. Holden gestures with the case and Bill crosses to stand on his other side. Bill braces a hand on the back of Holden’s chair and leans over, his suit jacket whispering over Holden’s shoulder. Holden restrains a shiver. 

“Carol Bundy. She shared a murder spree with Doug Clark--” Holden starts. 

“The--uh--the Sunset Strip Killers. Right?” Bill asks and Wendy cuts in. 

“That’s them. Bundy was in the newest cases Gunn had for us to look at.”

“And we feel it’s a worthwhile rabbit hole? A woman serial killer?”

“It’s fairly unprecedented,” Wendy offers and reaches over to tap a crime scene photo of a girl lying in an alley. “Her interviews could give a significant insight into collaborative murderers.” 

“We can take another run at Henley,” Gregg says, standing and joining them. “I feel more prepared now. This could be a chance to contrast two submissive partners in team killers.”

“It would be interesting to create similar lists--like the organized and disorganized--contrasting the subjects,” Bill says and his hands moves to Holden’s shoulder. Holden gets caught up, staring up at Bill. The shitty basement lighting is haloing him and his Adam’s apple bobs as he speaks. Holden wants to kiss it. 

“It sounds compelling,” Wendy says and Holden fights every urge to keep looking at Bill to turn and look at her. She’s watching him, to his growing horror, and her eyes are shrewd. She drags her eyes away and looks at Gregg again. “I’m interested in returning to Henley. Are we in agreement for our next steps?”

“I think so,” Bill says and Holden can feel his fingers moving over Holden’s shoulder holster. 

“Let’s do it,” Gregg chimes in and Holden looks back up at Bill. He’s looking down at Holden already and Holden sucks in a small breath. 

“Holden?” Bill asks, mouth curving wryly. “Are you in?”

“Yeah,” Holden says and turns back to the case. Carol Bundy’s mugshot stares up at him. “Let’s run it by Ted and work on a schedule.”

“I don’t think I need to tell anyone here how valuable our program is,” Bill says, standing upright and crossing his arms. Holden recognizes his inspirational-speech voice immediately. “We are doing truly groundbreaking work and it’s going to benefit a lot of people. And I truly can’t imagine a better team. You’re some of the brightest people I’ve ever been lucky enough to work with. And--after Atlanta--we need a softball. I know it’s been a tough few months. But we are going to pull through it.”

“Here, here,” Wendy says with a smile and raises her coffee cup. “Let’s go to dinner. It’s close enough to five.”

“Sure,” Bill agrees immediately and claps a hand on Holden’s shoulder. “I could go for some greasy Chinese.”

“You really push the Philistine agenda,” Wendy teases and crosses into her office to collect her things. Bill heads out the door. Holden neatens his things, and he and Gregg wait for Wendy by the front door. 

It’s the first time Holden’s felt peace in awhile. 

***

They’re checking in to a hotel in Corte Madera, forty odd minutes from the Oakland airport at about two in the morning. They took a red-eye in and Holden is running on coffee fumes and sheer willpower. He runs in to get the keys from the night clerk while Bill parks the car and then heads over to meet him. 

He opens the door while Bill carries their suitcases from the car. 

There is only one bed in the minimalistic, modern room. Holden’s brain short-circuits.

“Are you giggling?” Bill asks and shoves passed him into the room. “Oh.”

“I’ll see if there’s another room,” Holden says. 

“See that you do,” Bill grouses. He dumps the luggage on the sidewalk and jabs a cigarette in his mouth. 

Holden hurries back to the night clerk and knocks on his little window. 

“What’s up, man?” The guy asks, smelling faintly of reefer. 

“The key you gave me,” Holden says and holds it out. “It’s to a single.”

“That’s what we have you down for,” the guy says. “When it was reserved, it was reserved for a single.”

“Well, can I upgrade?” Holden asks. “To a double?”

“We don’t have any vacancy, man. I’m sorry,” he says and Holden cups his hand around the back of his own neck. “There’s a pharmacy convention in town.”

“Okay,” he says and heads back to Bill. 

“Got the key?” Bill asks, stubbing out his cigarette on the brick wall.

“They don’t have any vacancies,” Holden says, opening the door again. The bed looks even smaller now. 

“Christ. It’s two in the morning,” Bill sighs. “I’ll take the car. We’ll be on a plane tomorrow to Southern California anyways.”

“I’ll take the car,” Holden says. “Younger back. You know.”

“It’s alright, Holden,” Bill says. “I’ve slept in a car before.”

“I insist. I’ll sleep in the car,” Holden says and holds up a hand when Bill starts to protest. “I’m serious.”

He changes into pajamas and brushes his teeth before carrying one of the pillows and an extra blanket out to the car. The back seat is much too short for him to stretch out in, but he settles on laying on his side and wrapping his arms around his middle. He’s squashed and will probably feel it in the morning but that’s that. 

He’s drifting, staring at the back of the drivers’ seat, thinking about the case, when someone knocks on the window above his head. He starts, jerking up and presses a hand to his chest. 

It’s Bill.

Holden opens the door, sitting up fully.

“Hey,” Bill says. He’s fully dressed in a sweater and slacks, shoes on and laced and cologne freshly applied. “I’m going out. You can have the bed. I’ll be back in the morning.”

“Are you going to see him?” Holden blurts, unbidden by the clarity of awakeness. 

“Not that it’s even remotely your business,” Bill says, leaning on the trunk of the car. “But—yeah. I am.”

Bill offers the motel key to Holden and he takes it, climbing out of the backseat. Holden trades him for the car key. Bill gets in the driver's seat and rolls down the window, sticks his elbow out it and looks up at Holden.

“Get some sleep, Holden,” he says and his expression is indescribable, something Holden can’t read.

“Good night,” Holden says, jealousy churning in his stomach.  _ If you stay, I can give you anything he can.  _

Bill is quiet another beat, then he starts the car and reverses smoothly out of the parking space. Holden stands there, in socks on pavement again and wishes Bill would stay again. 

***

Holden wakes up to the door opening, quietly creaking on an ill-oiled hinge. He sits up, bleary in the morning and looks at the silhouette of Bill in the dawning light. 

“Hey, kid,” Bill says, raspy with sleep, and Holden knuckles his eyes. “Go back to sleep.”

“Okay,” Holden says, warm and content in bed. He lays back down and  pulls the blanket up to his chin. The clock reads four forty-five and he yawns in protest. He begins to drift off.

He becomes vaguely aware of Bill laying on the bed beside him, on top of the blanket. He falls asleep. 

***

Holden wakes again, slipping into consciousness slowly. There’s a band of warmth against his back and he barely needs to inhale to smell the Old Spice Musk. Bill is behind him, so close, and so far away.

He’s frozen, terrified of waking Bill and ruining the stillness of the moment. He wants to turn, wants to roll over and look at Bill but he knows he shouldn’t. Bill exhales, slow and long, and Holden freezes.

“I can hear your brain working,” Bill says, quiet and fond.

Holden turns, on instinct, and then he’s face-to-face with Bill. Bill is staring up at the ceiling, hands folded over his chest. Holden can see a little smile in the crook of his mouth. 

“Morning,” Holden rasps. 

“Good morning,” Bill says, clearly humoring him. “How’d you sleep?”

“Just fine,” Holden says and fists his hands in his blanket to keep from reaching out. “Did you have a nice time?”

“Oh, just great,” Bill says. “Got in a huge fight. Glad I hauled my cookies all the way to the city for that.”

“Ah,” Holden says, awkwardly. “I’m sorry.”

“No, Holden,” Bill says and turns to look at him. He’s less than seven inches away. His eyes are  _ so  _ blue. “I really don’t think you are.”

“I’m not,” Holden says, shrugging. His heart pounds. He licks his lips. “I’m really not.”

Bill’s mouth parts, just a little, and then he’s sitting up. He shakes his head, chuckles to himself. 

“Up and at ‘em,” Bill says and stands with a groan. He stretches his back, bounces on his heels a few times. Then he looks over his shoulder at Holden. “We have a flight to catch.”

***

Holden is unfortunately sweaty and clammy driving up to the gate of the prison. Bill’s been chain smoking since before Holden got up and he’s stubbing out a cigarette in the ashtray. 

“How are you doing?” Bill asks with a fleeting glance towards Holden. “Is your head in the game?”

“I’m good. Doing good,” Holden says, trying to force it to be true. His fingers are trembling. 

“Good. I may be putting the horse before the cart but I have a good feeling about this,” Bill says and parks the car near the fence. They retrieve the recording equipment and head into the prison. 

***

“It always pisses me off when they’re so mealy-mouthed,” Bill grunts, peeling out of the parking lot with a spray of gravel. “The innocent routine--As if we don’t know what she did.”

“She was particularly deluded,” Holden says, folding himself against the passenger door.

“I need a drink,” Bill sighs, pressing his thumb into his eye socket. 

“I was going to--Well, I was thinking--”

“Spit it out, Holden,” Bill says and Holden sucks in a breath and sits up a little straighter. 

“There’s a bar. Called--well, you’ll laugh if I say it outloud. It’s in Laguna Beach,” Holden says and slants a look over at Bill. “I was going to go tonight.”

“Why are you being squirrely?”

“It’s for--ah. After dark it’s for same-sex dancing,” Holden settles on and Bill heaves a heavy sigh. 

“Holden,” Bill says, quiet and as steady as steel. “You have to be careful. You’re going to get yourself beat down. It’s not safe to be so blatant.”

“I’m not an idiot, Bill,” Holden says. “I know.”

“I don’t know if this is some experiment or if you’re just...understanding things about yourself now,” Bill says. “But you have to be more careful.”

“Come with me,” Holden says. “I’ll be careful. We can be careful.”

“I don’t know, Holden,” Bill says and drags a hand over his mouth. “I haven’t been before.” 

“It’ll be fun,” Holden says. “We can do dinner first. Surf and turf, Bill.”

“I do love surf and turf,” Bill says, voice softening and Holden smiles victoriously at his own hands. “Alright. But if it seems off, I want you to agree we’ll leave when I’m ready.”

“Deal,” Holden says, glancing over at Bill with a smile still on his face. 

“Oh, shut it,” Bill says with a laugh and turns on the radio. 

Dinner is nice. Bill puts the little bib on with the cartoon crustacean and cracks into his lobster with relish. Holden starts with his rare steak. 

“How can you eat that shit?” Bill asks around a mouthful of seafood. “It’s basically mooing at me.”

“It’s how my mom always made it,” Holden says with a shrug. 

“You don’t even hear yourself,” Bill says with a laugh. “You and your folks must get along.”

“I get along with my mom. She’s pretty great,” Holden says and looks up at Bill. “I’m not--as close with my dad. He gets...frustrated with me.”

“Frustrated about what?” Bill asks. 

“About the clothes I wear. My apartment. My girlfriend. Or lack thereof, I guess,” Holden says and gestures towards Bill with his fork. “I imagine he would have loved having you for a son. I was always too bookish.”

“Well, I don’t know that being bookish is a bad thing,” Bill says and Holden shrugs again. 

“It is if your dad was first-string QB all through high school and college. And mom was the co-captain of the cheer team at college. I was smart, sure, but he’s smart. And athletically skilled. ‘Well-rounded’. That’s the term he used,” Holden says and takes a drink of his red wine. “I’m not well-rounded.”

“Parents can be blind,” Bill offers, casual as he shakes Holden to the core. “I think you’re a fine young man. You’re clever, you can shoot a cap off a bottle and—yeah—you’re sensitive but you’re a good agent. You’re just fine.”’

Holden is horrified to find a flush creeping up his neck into his face. He feels hot, uncomfortable and squirmy in his belly. He likens it the sensation of ticking up the first hill of a roller coaster, being tilted back and back until you’re sure you’re going to slide out of your seat. 

“Thank you,” Holden says, absolutely uncertain what his face looks like right now. Bill pauses in cracking his lobster, his expression softens. 

“I mean it, Holden,” Bill says, sincerity in his voice. “You’re one of the good ones.”

Holden isn’t sure what to say, so he says nothing. He holds Bill’s gaze a scant few seconds longer than he should and then returns to his meal. 

They fall back into simpler topics and once again, Holden is happy. 

***

Bill gets close enough to the bar to read the neon sign in the window before he stops.

“Are you fucking with me, Holden?” He asks. “Is this just one long attempt to give me an embolism?”

There, in glowing purple neon, is a sign reading _The Boom Boom_ _Room_. 

“I told you you wouldn’t like the name,” Holden says, tucking his hands into his pockets. He’s put on a clean button up and slacks. Bill is wearing a wide-collared t-shirt with black stripes. 

“You want me to go in there,” Bill sneers and he lights a cigarette in angry motions. “Into the fucking  _ Boom Boom _ \--Jesus. I can’t say it.”

“I’m going,” Holden says and he feels his chin turn mulish. “I’ll see you in there or I won’t.”

“Ah, hell,” Bill says to himself and then he’s charging passed Holden through the door. 

There’s a two dollar cover charge and then they’re inside. It’s similar to the club Holden had gone to back home with the only major difference being the amount of clothing people are wearing. There are miles of tan skin in the room and on the dance floor and Bill turns back to make a distinctly irritated face at Holden. 

“I didn’t know what to expect either,” Holden yells over the music and Bill exhales visibly. 

The bartender is quick with the pour and then Bill’s got a whiskey and Holden’s got a vodka cranberry. Bill very pointedly doesn’t say a word about Holden’s drink choice. 

“Are you going to dance?” Holden asks, turning his back to the bar to watch the writhing crowd. 

“I’d sooner put on a jumpsuit and join Bundy,” Bill says. 

Holden smiles against his drink and Bill slowly uncoils as the night continues. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” Holden says after a while. 

“There’s so many people here,” Bill says. He glances at Holden like he’s just remembered he’s there. “The club back home—Was it like this?”

“No,” Holden says and sets his drink down. “It was much more private. A need-to-know kind of place. A little darker and less technicolor.”

“Seems like you had more fun there,” Bill says and Holden shrugs. 

“I had more alcohol. I guess that could be construed as more fun,” Holden says and then the plinko ball memory of their kiss falls into Holden’s brain. 

He pinkens and Bill’s mouth parts—to ask why he’s blushing, perhaps—and then it seems to slot into place for him as well. 

“Last time,” Bill says and Holden steels himself. “You got with someone.”

There’s a heat to Bill’s voice. It’s a dark warmth curling in his tone that makes Holden shift on his chair. 

“Yes,” Holden lies. There appears to be only one acceptable answer, the fallacy seems essential to the moment. Bill nods, expecting the confirmation. 

“You didn’t have sex at your apartment.”

“No. The club,” Holden confirms, falsifying this story from thin air. Bill knows he’s lying. The lies are necessary for something he can’t understand yet. But, intrinsically, he can tell he wants to understand. “In the bathroom.”

“That’s a little rough-and-tumble for you, Holden,” Bill says and lights another cigarette. He slowly cants his gaze to Holden. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Alright,” Holden says. His mouth is dry. 

They settle their tabs. The air outside is just as balmy as within the club, but there’s a sweet breeze on Holden’s exposed face. He is a little drunk. Tipsy might be a more accurate term. 

They don’t really talk on their way back to the hotel. It’s crowded in Laguna, it always is. 

They’re in their separate beds, tucked away in the clean and rough linen, when Bill brings it up again. 

“In the club back home,” Bill says and Holden feels a thrum of excitement. “The guy you were with. Did he pick you up?”

“Yeah. He found me at the bar,” Holden says, voice cracking embarrassingly. He forges on. “Took him into the bathroom.”

There’s a shifting in the bed beside him, cloth whispering over cloth. Holden feels the weight of uncertainty hovering above him, but he’s never been one to shy away from difficult situations.

“Then I knelt on the floor,” Holden says, just above a breath. 

“You didn’t kiss?”

“I didn’t kiss him,” Holden says.  _ I kissed you.  _ He continues. “He unzipped himself.”

“He had done this before.”

“Yes,” Holden says softly. “He knew what to do. He showed me.”

“He was careful with you. Eased you into it,” Bill says in a voice not unlike his interview one. “He knew you didn’t have experience. Didn’t understand why you picked him.”

“For his hands,” Holden interjects. He sucks in a breath. “His hands are—-they’re strong and square. They’d feel nice.”

“Nice where?”

“On my—skin. On my neck, my chest.”

“You’re soft. Your skin is warmer than most.”

“I run hot,” Holden says and he presses a palm to his sternum. His skin feels like it’s burning. He’s overheated from Bill’s words. “He wasn’t mean, but he was firm. He pressed me down.”

“You’d look good down there,” Bill says, voice impossibly deep. There’s a growl in it, a mysterious timbre Holden’s never heard before. “Big eyes. Your mouth. Fuck.”

“Bill—” Holden starts, rolling to look at him then.

Bill is in profile, the harsh lines of his face stand in stark relief amongst the fuzz of alcohol and the darkness of the room. 

He doesn’t turn to Holden. Holden keeps looking. 

“What else happened?” Bill asks, voice still low. 

“I—fuck. He took himself out. He took his cock out. And I put my mouth on him,” Holden says. 

His pulse stutters when Bill’s hand moves under the covers. 

He loses himself, just a little. Filth spills out of his mouth. Spinning the yarn of debauchery, of a weighted heat in his mouth and fingers in his hair. 

And then, after, Bill is quiet aside from a heaviness to his breath. Holden swallows, fingers clenched in his t-shirt, hard in his pajama bottoms. 

The night holds their moment, their dispatching of boundaries. Holden wonders, not for the first time, if Bill will ever allow him to bring his attraction into the tangible. If he will ever be allowed to touch him, feel his body, the cooking of his muscles. 

Holden wonders even as Bill’s breathing slows and even as he drifts off to sleep himself. 

***

Holden startles awake, the previous night ricocheting through his brain. He understands now. 

Bill is, at his core, a protector. And Holden understands  _ why  _ they shouldn’t pursue each other. He can conceptualize the issues. They’re inherent. 

The shared job, the social stigma, the potential for fallout. But here, watching Bill breathe gently in the clean morning sunlight, mind racing over the roleplaying they’d indulged in, he can’t find the gravity of the risk. 

He imagines, in tender detail, how it would feel to climb out of bed. The rough carpet beneath his feet. And he’d cross to Bill’s bed and lean a knee on it. 

He’d bend then, wilt down to press his mouth against Bill’s. Bill might wake and inhale sharply before melting against him. He might pull Holden down, roll them so he’s a warm, sleepy weight against Holden. 

Holden can imagine Bill moving his hands around to cradle Holden and pressing him to the bed with kisses. They’d devolve into open-mouth sliding of tongues and nips that trail down Holden’s throat to his chest. 

Bill is experienced. He’d know how to make Holden’s nerves sing. 

He’d draw confident teeth over Holden’s sternum and suck hickies into his skin, all hidden by Holden’s daily suits. But he could press them with his fingers in the car on the way to the airport, and even on the plane. He’d carry back proof of this burning, unfathomable  _ something  _ to Virginia. And even if Bill rebuked him at home, he could look in the mirror above his own bathroom sink and know that Bill had wanted him somewhere. 

And then, the hazy dream ends. Bill snuffles into awareness and Holden swivels his head carefully until he’s gazing at the ceiling. 


End file.
